Sunday, March 6, 2011

I ask that when my spirit quits this shell of mortal clayAnd o’er the trail across the range pursues its silent way,That no imposing marble shaft may mark the spot where restThe tailings of the bard who sang the praises of the West.But, that above them may be placed a slab of white or gray,And on it but the epitaph carved in the earlier day,Upon the headboard of a man who did the best he couldTo have the bad deeds of his life o’ershadowed by the good:“He Done His Damdest.”

Engrave upon the polished face of that plain, simple stone,No nicely worded sentiment intended to condoneThe sins of an eventful life, nor say the virtues wipedAway the stains of vice — in lines original or swiped;That rough but honest sentiment that stood above the headOf one who wore his boots into his final earthly bedIs good enough for me to have above my mould’ring clay—Just give the name and day I quit and underneath it say:“He Done His Damdest.”

Some who are overstocked with phony piety may raiseTheir hands in blank amazement at the sentiment and gazeUpon the simple marble slab ‘neath which the sleeper lies,With six or seven different kinds of horror in their eyes;But hardy sons and daughters of this brave and rugged WestWill see a tribute in the line so pointedly expressed–And what more earnest tribute could be paid to any manWhose weary feet have hit the trail towards the Mystery, than:“He Done His Damdest.”

Sometimes the thought comes to my mind…
That life spent in the soft shadows of your tresses
Would be so joyful if it could be so; that
This sorrow, which seems to be the fate of my existence
Could have been lost in the radiance of your eyes.

It would not have been strange if I, forgetful of the world
Had remained lost in the flashes of your beauty.
Your lithe body, your half-shut, dreamy eyes—
If I had been occupied with such beautiful fantasies.

And when the bitter realities of life called me
I would have drunk the sweet nectar of your lips.
Life would be shouting and shrieking about me, and I
Would have hidden in the shadows of your thick tresses, and lived.

But alas this could not be and now such is my condition
That neither you, nor sorrow for your loss, nor longing for you exist.
My life is passing by in such a manner as if
It has not even the aspiration for anyone’s succour.

I have embraced the sorrows of the world.
I am travelling through unknown paths
Terrifying shadows are coming toward me
From the frightening planes of life and death.

I have no place, no goal, neither a ray of sunlight.
My life is being wasted in desolate wildernesses.
I will remain lost in such desolate places for ever
I know, o my soul-mate, but still, out of the blue,
Sometimes the thought comes to my mind…

and weaving tales; My patience has over-brimmed,
O sweetheart, why do you not take me to your bosom.
Long like curls in the night of separation,
short like life on the day of our union;
My dear, how will I pass the dark dungeon night
without your face before.
Suddenly, using a thousand tricks, the enchanting eyes robbed me
of my tranquil mind;
Who would care to go and report this matter to my darling?
Tossed and bewildered, like a flickering candle,
I roam about in the fire of love;
Sleepless eyes, restless body,
neither comes she, nor any message.
In honour of the day I meet my beloved
who has lured me so long, O Khusro;
I shall keep my heart suppressed,
if ever I get a chance to get to her trick